Writing a book involves a certain amount of navel gazing. That is where it "organically grows"out from you see. I have a very ordinary navel. It is an innie navel, not half as exciting as an outie navel. An outie navel reaches out in a little tendril, an antennae that prods the air reflectively and catches a whole swirl of ideas. Ideas that then spring about inside your tummy, giving you tiny butterfly niggles, till you retch out over sheets and sheets of A4 pages. The Innie navel is hideously self obssessed, with a propensity to avoid the big picture. It collapses over and in itself, going deeper and deeper down into a territory that it has explored since childhood. And the pickings there are slim. So ultimately innie navel gazing writers are destined for two things. Collapsing and falling so deep into themselves that they emerge hideously scarred and come out with a 'Confessions of a.....' book that other hopelessly self involved people (a majority) read. The other destiny is the collapse and fall into and then right through yourself, discovering the universality of the outie navel in a painfully personal way. And the stories you tell then are as old as the universe itself, camouflaged in the here and now. So here's my wish. To fall right through, without a safety net and remain sane enough to bring back the stories.

Never read trashy romance novels on the day before Valentine. Especially with much bursting-at-the-bodice-ripping-off-shirt-friction-pressure-heat action. Actualy if it was just that, it would be fine. But no, they'll have a nice, believable Hollywood romantic comedy script running alongside. The kind that makes you all moo-eyed and moronic. Where the dark-eyed one with cheekbones sharp enough to slice diamonds feeds you nummy things under the stars.
You are looking at an ex-Mills and boons addict. I OD-ied on that crap, especially the ones with adorable kids running about in the middle of the pages. And then I grew up. But sometimes, just sometimes I wish it were all that simple in my head again. Happy Valentine's Day

To whoever posts on this blog...
I can't access my blog page from my office computer because of some firewall crap. All I can do is login, post and see my posts on the dashboard itself and when google is feeling generous, see a cache image of my blog page. Which means even though I get a mail about your comments on the blog, I can't reply to it. It is a sucky situation. But I read each comment and everyone of them is appreciated. Thank you and keep reading.
And to answer the question, I never stopped blogging. Was just getting bored of this one. But I realise even inanimate blog pages have ways of snaking into your heart.

A year ago, I didn't like cats. They were contrary creatures. Loving a dog was so much simpler. You sit on your haunches, make "Shona, bohchai" sounds and chances are they will come running into your arms and give big, fat wet ones on your cheek. If you smell of bacon, chances of reciprocal love - 100%. And then there were ways to pick up a dog. Scoop one arm under the lower belly, support front legs with arms. That is the kindest way. Or upside down like a baby, with his brown eyes looking up trustingly at you. You could break his spine that way but no reproachful glances. You could also drag him towards you with its back legs, prop him on your chest, carry him over one shoulder. More licks shall ensue. In short dogs have no quality control.
But a cat, ahhh, a cat. Approach with small clicking noise made with your tongue, hand outstretched. If the cat is interested, you shall be given a small sniff and the ears will be straight. If they are not in the mood, the ears will immediately flatten across their skulls and the large eyes will look up unblinkingly at you. If you have got the first green signal, go ahead and scratch gently behind their ears or the joint where the neck and cheek meet. The head will now go into this rolling movement where it will try coming closer to your hand, eyes closed in ecstasy. You might even get a purr or two. Next proceed to stroke its back, gently drawing your hand across, right down and over the tail. Done right, the tail will be straight and then flick through your fingers. Then procced to scratch lower back. Never try to scratch a cat's tummy till you know it well. By this time the cat will be in the mood to be picked up. But unlike a dog, the cat loves using its claws to leave little parallel red welts across your hand. So Get This Right. Pick up the cat with one splayed hand, using your fingers to keep the front legs separate, so as to prevent any indignant struggles and support it across the side of your body and use the other hand to stroke it into submission. It works most of the time. This position gurantees 15 mins of petting time. When the cat starts wiggling, drop it the floor. When you become a regular, it will come and rub itself across your jeans and make little dancing movement towards your hands, begging to be picked up.
Now the moot point. Why do I now like cats? All because several have licked me on the palm of my hand. Its addictive and the buggers know it.

It is the initiation ceremony of Bombay. You will emerge with the familiar tattoo of wrinkles on your brow. It will strip you down, it will make you beg, it will leave you impoverished and yet, yet when done will make you swagger and thump your chest in the manner of apes. You will say,"I shifted house."
Every unlucky swain or lass without a room to call their own (and by 'own' I mean conquered with stamp papers to prove it) will be yanked out with the periodicity and painfullness of upper lip hair removal. Every 11 months (or shorter periods if your landlord is an unusually jumpy bastard), just when you are curling your toes in, feeling complacent, will come the familiar keening cry that fills the soul of every bombay animal when his time is up. Bye bye home, hello homelessness.
Dismantle and regroup. Brokers closing in for the kill, showing you palaces just tantalising above your maximum stretching point budget. Where you will contemplate going without food to get that dream flat with those lovely white floors and windows that stretch from the ceiling to ground. (Western toilet, madam, with geyser) When a deposit is not a polite way of referring to your morning dump but cold hard cash that you kiss goodbye for the next 11 months. Money you never see as you shift from place to place but is the Shivastra of bartering.
I am tired. I want to live on the footpath and slay dragons in my dreams. And yes I DO NOT want to file my tax savings by the bloody 15th of Feb. I have no money, yes? I pay rent in bombay. Enough said.